The entire court thought their foreign Queen accursed. Many believed the stress of having a worthy heir to be the catalyst for Liam’s descent toward the haggard man now seated upon the Glass Throne, a shell of his former self. And then, one day, by stroke of luck or the hand of Iam, she became pregnant with Prince Pi.
Torsten had never seen Queen Oleander happier than when she’d carried him. Maybe it was because the King had finally left her alone for those nine months, or perhaps she knew the connection she’d have with the child even during gestation. He missed how she was then. So full of hope, not refusing to see her son for what he’d become and blaming stolen trinkets. Now, all he could do was hope those days might return sooner than later.
He decided it was time for him to stop studying the room for danger and to find his place near the Queen’s side. If he waited any longer he'd risk falling out of her good graces, and if there was anywhere in the world he needed to be now, it was there.
For the good of the Glass.
Torsten made eye contact with a few more of his men posted around the hall. After receiving a nod from each that the King and Queen were safe, he strode across the room, his heavy armor clanging with every step. The crowd parted. He hardly knew the difference between fear and respect and didn’t care which of the two he received. Both served the same purpose: order.
He lifted his foot onto the first step of the royal dais. He could already smell Queen Oleander’s perfume, and it was intoxicating.
“My Queen,” he said, bowing low.
“Torsten, come,” she said. “Stand with me and keep me company.”
Torsten covered the paces remaining and found his place between the thrones and one stride behind.
“If only he could still keep me company.” She threw a woeful glance at the King. “If only you were upon that throne,” she said, flirtatiously grazing Torsten's forearm down to his hand.
Torsten knew better than to react. Uriah had taught him well before he left. The Queen could be cruel in her mocking. He had good reason to believe she knew how he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention—everyone did. He wished he could help it. She found delight in coaxing him on, and a weaker man may have given in. But she was married to his king, and that was a sacred vow made under the Eye of Iam. One which he’d never break.
“Oh, come now,” she said. “Don’t be such an uptight prude.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” was his only retort.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, look, the real entertainment has arrived.”
The head of a troupe entered to a chorus of fanfare. He strutted up to the dais and bowed low, his loose, frilly sleeves nearly brushing the floor.
“Your Highnesses,” he said, annunciating each word like he was in a coliseum. “On this most auspicious day, the Westvale Troupe are pleased to present to you a recreation of one of the King’s most remarkable conquests. The siege of Latiapur!”
He extended an arm back toward the entrance and his group flooded the Grand Hall with the over-the-top kind of flourish only an acting troupe could. A line of actors dressed in the blue and white of the Glass and others, skin painted gray, wearing tan and black of the Shesaitju’s Black Sands soldiers followed closely behind. Torsten eyed a few of the gray-skinned Shesaitju nobles present, their mouths showing signs of scowls growing beneath their masks. He trusted their kind the least.
Their disdain only lasted until they thought better of it and joined the rest in applause. Barely a noble present was from a land which hadn’t faced Liam’s crusade, and they were, all of them, better off under the grace and prosperity of Iam’s chosen kingdom.
The Queen let out a soft giggle and slapped Torsten on the arm. “I do believe that one’s supposed to be Uriah,” she said, pointing to a man wearing a white helmet like the one Torsten now held under his arm. Uriah had been Wearer of White during that war and nearly every other.
Torsten was appalled. The man was excessively fat. He waddled around the dance floor like a buffoon. The whole court stifled laughter until the Queen burst out in applause. Those attending followed her lead.
“He looked nothing like that,” Torsten said under his breath.
“It’s just a show,” the Queen said, shushing him.
That was easy for her to say. She was portrayed by a young lady almost equally breathtaking as she was—almost. The troupe undoubtedly scoured the land in search of someone beautiful enough to not offend Her Royal Highness.
When the actor playing Liam arrived, the crowd’s applause grew deafening. The man had a chin like an anvil and feathered black hair, same as Liam used to. He took several bows and was met by whistles and cheers. Torsten peered at the Queen with the corner of his eye, not turning his head. Her brow furrowed, but only for a moment. She cleared her throat, smiled humorlessly, and joined in with the same gentle applause.
The night carried on, the troupe depicting more epochs from the King’s grand life. Although he’d accomplished far more than could be covered in a single night, they did a fabulous job honoring him. From bringing the scheming Panping mystics to justice after they poisoned his father, to the first and only Shesaitju War. They ended the evening with the siring of his heir—they, of course, graciously withheld the more private portions of the event.
The Queen's expression soured at the sight of the babe playing Pi. Torsten found himself doing the same.
Even knowing who Pi spoke of in the cover of darkness, Torsten cared for Liam’s son and couldn’t believe that he wasn’t present on the evening the kingdom paid, what might be, their final respects to his father. Had he really been that obsessed? Tormented? Could he not snap out of his madness long enough to eat, drink and be merry?
“Will the Prince not be joining us again?” he asked the Queen, leaning in just enough that his cheek brushed her golden hair. “He should be here for his father.”
She whipped around sharply.
“You know better than to ask about my precious boy at a time like this!” She bolted upright, stormed off the dais, and headed outside. Several attendees took notice but returned to their food and drinks when Torsten’s scowl found them.
“My Queen,” Torsten said. He took a step to follow, then thought better of it and stood his ground beside the King. After all, he was the head of the King’s Shield, and his king was not yet dead.
The revelry continued. Tables were carried out by servants for a feast the likes of which Torsten would have killed for growing up poor in South Corner. Now, seeing the Great Hall filled with such finery sickened him. Barely a soul in the entire room even glanced over at Liam while they ate without Oleander present, fed from the gold in coffers he’d fought a dozen wars to fill. Fewer still said grace to Iam for providing this bounty, even as High Priest Wren tried to lead them.
Why would they? Few were of the Glass, and now no one of importance watched. Oleander may have been brash, but the people needed to see a Nothhelm capable of command upon the throne.
Unable to stomach the discourtesy any longer, Torsten finally left his post.
“Sir Nikserof,” he addressed the Shieldsman standing guard at the western courtyard door Oleander had exited through. “Keep an eye on things for a moment.”
“Is everything all right?” Nikserof asked.
“Fine, but the Queen should be seen up here at his side.”
Nikserof saluted, then opened the door for Torsten. Two flowerbeds flanked a dirt pathway in the castle’s west courtyard. Deep gouges dappled the dirt where long, thin stilettos had punctured the wet earth. It had been the first night in as long as Torsten could remember where the rain accompanied sunset.
The spire above, a long spindle of twisting glass, reflected and refracted the light of Celeste, the bright moon, and spread a false light over the whole city of Yarrington. Torsten looked beyond it at Mount Lister. Its glassy upper plain also reflecting the light of the moons to create a silvery aura. In his mind, he could almost imagine the God Feud long ago
atop that cloven peak—gods and goddesses throwing spears and bolts of lightning and the crackling of Elsewhere’s fire. He tried to imagine this land before the Glass Castle was erected, before the first kings left the northern lands to find peace in the south.
He flicked his gaze back to the hazy courtyard before him. At his feet were the Queen’s heels and her mask, sticking up from the soil like unnaturally shaped flowers blooming in the night. She must have become tired of pulling them free of the mud and removed them.
Torsten peered up from the pile of the Queen’s effects and saw her seated at the large fountain in the middle of the courtyard—a stone-carved dragon, each of its ten-thousand scales chiseled expertly. The smell of fresh jasmine wafted through the crisp night air.
She looked at peace, watching as the water dribbled from the dragon’s mouth to join the rain. Torsten cautiously took a few steps, the soft sound of the fiddle playing in the Grand Hall became even softer. He saw her hand snaking through the cascading waters, breaking like the Boiling Waters against the rocky southern coast.
Then, suddenly, her head spun. She rose and hurried toward the West Tower. Her long dress dragged through the puddles and she didn’t even bother to lift it, which wasn’t like her. Rain trickled again from the sky that was quickly going from dour gray to midnight blue. Torsten expected thunder and lightning, but instead, the rain broke into a downpour. Torsten picked up his gait, the cold droplets drumming against his skin and armor.
A shrill scream erupted in the distance, carried on the wind across the courtyard, rising over the gale of the storm. The cry of the Queen, too far for any guard to hear. Torsten hated how the sound of her anguished voice caused him such pain. She was still queen only because she bore Liam a son, not because her people loved her. And she was neither kind nor loving—she was the opposite of all Torsten had ever wanted on the throne… yet he cared.
His boots crunched against the gravel walkway as he ran in the direction of her cry. All he could think of were the many nobles who’d entered that evening; the many possible assassins with their sights set on ending the Nothhelm reign. Masked faces spun like a carousel through his mind.
His anger grew as he heard her sobs. It was so dark, and the rain fell in such thick sheets, he could have been right on top of her and wouldn’t know until it was too late. He slowed for just a moment, trying to find his bearings.
“My Queen!” he shouted. He knew if enemies stalked nearby he’d reveal himself, but he didn’t care. If Queen Oleander was in trouble, it was his fault.
He drew his blade—a fine, glaruium claymore with the Eye of Iam adorning the pommel. The blade itself was nothing overly extravagant, just a sword that brought death when swung or stabbed. And Torsten was prepared to bring death.
“Torsten!” Oleander shouted in response. Even that single word broke into several syllables as she struggled to speak through sobs.
Torsten followed her voice and saw the source of her grief.
He sheathed his weapon and dropped to his knees beside Prince Pi, splayed out on the wet grass. He looked up and saw that the window of his chambers swung in the wind. Torsten remembered seeing him swaying on the windowsill on the night he'd felt a drawing to the boy's room, and this time he must have stepped out.
What have I done? I should have told her.
Torsten placed his ear against the boy's chest. ”He's still breathing, but barely."
He grabbed the boy, intent on delivering him to the infirmary. A current shot through him like he’d been struck by lightning. His vision blurred, and he felt suddenly as if he was flying. The world whirled past him. He could feel the wind pulling at his face, and then it all came to a halt as if time itself had slowed. When the world came back into focus, Torsten stood at the edge of darkness. Tall trees rose before him bathed in shadow. Tiny, glowing orbs pulsed within the darkness—white spheres hanging, defying the laws of nature itself.
He reached toward one when a sense of vertigo stole over him. His eyes lost focus again, and all he could see was dark red—crimson. He closed them to blot out the color, and when they reopened, he stood again at the base of the West Tower, holding the Prince as the Queen sobbed at his feet.
The very air seemed to be sucked from the Queen as her cries turned to low wails. She shook violently, struggling even to breathe.
Torsten’s heart burst with sadness for her, but more than that, for his kingdom. The poor boy was meant to be the next great King of Glass. If the vision Torsten saw was something the boy lived with, it was clear he wasn't simply distressed over a lost doll, or driven mad with an obsession over communing with the Buried Goddess. Something dark and terrible afflicted him. Dark magic, a curse, unlike anything Torsten had ever felt—magic few but a Drav Cra Arch Warlock like Redstar were capable of.
A sudden flash of lightning split the sky. The thunderous crack that followed couldn’t mask the sound Torsten hoped he’d never hear. A bell chimed three times from the castle’s tallest spire. It meant the King was in danger, and with all the masked strangers around, his heart filled with dread.
VII
THE THIEF
The Yarrington dungeon remained dank as ever. The smell of rotting flesh and excrement never lifted, even after hours of waiting. It was no wonder since there was a steaming pile of shog just sitting in the corner of the old man’s cell.
Whitney sighed loudly.
“Would ye rather me hold it in, yer royal highness?” the old man asked, followed by a cackle and a hack.
Whitney ignored him.
Celeste and Loutis, Pantego’s twin moons, peeked through the high barred window, offset against the star-speckled sky. There was some legend about them being Iam’s first followers. Celeste, the follower who stayed true, was the larger of the two, bright and golden. Her counterpart, Loutis was said to have turned his back on Iam, thus cursed to be pale and gray like a haggard skull. Like anything to do with gods and curses, Whitney thought it was a pile of horse shog.
Their appearances, however, told Whitney the time was near.
He stuck his nose between the bars, ignoring the stench, pointed and said, “It appears that staircase over there is unguarded.”
“Goes to the kitchens where they make that yig they call food,” the old man replied.
It was true. Whitney’s first, and hopefully only meal in this pit, was awful. It was a paste—like something a potter would wipe from his hands at the end of a long day of molding clay.
Whitney smiled, happy the old man was finally speaking again. He’d begun to fear the man had finally bit the dust in his sleep, which would undermine his entire escape plan. A series of creaks and groans echoed as the gaunt old man dragged himself to the spot where the guards left his food. Half of it puddled around the edges of the bowl.
“Disgusting,” the man said, which didn’t stop him from scooping the floor food up and shoveling the slop into his mouth.
“Are you going to tell me your name?” Whitney asked. “Or should I just continue thinking of you as ‘that haggard old man?’”
“Reese Gladsby,” he answered between mouthfuls. “The finest house ye ain’t heard of.”
“Ahhh, Reese,” Whitney said as if he’d just discovered the secret to immortality. “How about why you are imprisoned?”
It appeared Reese just needed a bit of food in his belly before he would be willing to speak. Not that Whitney really cared about the answer, but a little familiarity and he could persuade most men to do nearly anything.
“Ye asked me last night why I ain’t been transferred yet,” Reese said. “That be a better question to answer em all.”
Whitney nodded.
“Ye ever met former guard captain, Donova?” Reese asked.
Whitney shook his head.
“Long afore your time, sure’n. I's young in them days. Old rat bastard left a message I wasn’t to leave this cell just hours afore he croaked. Idiots thought it meant forever. Alls I did's tell him his mum's ugly. Tryin teac
h me a lesson, he was.”
Whitney stared at the man, incredulous.
“Worst part,” Reese continued, bits of gruel spilling from his lip, “Never got to say goodbye to me boy. He was only a half-dozen years them days. Now he himself’ll be a man—if he ain’t dead yet.”
“The new captain wouldn’t listen?” Whitney asked.
“Ye ever met one of these bolt-headed lot? All they do’s take orders. Don’t think, they don’t. Donova says I stay in the cell, they keep me in the cell. Simple as pie. Not like'n any of them’s even met the fellow.”
Whitney couldn’t help but laugh under his breath.
“Think it’s all a big joke, huh, Prince?” Reese questioned.
“No, not at all,” Whitney said, sincerely sorry. “It’s just that I was waiting to make sure it really was you.”
The man stopped mid-chew. “What’chu tryin’a say, boy?”
“That door.” Whitney pointed toward the kitchens. “The stables are through there too. Your son is waiting for you with two steeds, prepared to whisk you away from here. Said to look for a man named Reese when he paid me to get myself thrown in here.”
Reese’s face went pale. “My son?” he asked, breathless. He recovered quickly. “My son dun’t even know where’n I be. Ain’t never visited me, at least.” Reese waved in dismissal. “Bah!”
“Yes, that’s because he has been working hard to move up in the world. He‘s finally become a stableboy for the castle—I suppose he’d be a stableman at this point.”
“A man...” Reese’s scratchy voice trailed off with the possibilities. Then he crept closer to the bars, a glimmer of hope touching his features for the first time since Whitney met him. “He handsome like his father?”
Web of Eyes: (Buried Goddess Saga Book 1) Page 5
